


Sugar

by lovingdefiance



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Anthropology, Baking, Banter, Cookies, Cooking, Cupcakes, Dessert & Sweets, Dialogue Heavy, Eating, Friendship, Hand Feeding, Love Across The Universe: Dangan Salmon Team, M/M, Presents, Pudding, Religion, Service, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-03 07:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovingdefiance/pseuds/lovingdefiance
Summary: “Tribute? It’s...it’s sugar.” Saihara shrugged helplessly. “You like sweets, right? And you can use it in tea-”“Sure. But I’ll tell you what this is.” Oma set the bag down on the table with a faint thud. “It’s, like, half of a do-it-yourself kit for the kind of thing I actually wanna eat. Wow, it’s like you totally know me!”Saihara, in the process of offering gifts, makes some grave miscalculations.





	1. Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **007\. Sugar:** A basic seasoning that's primarily made up of sucrose. Be careful not to consume too much of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is a lighthearted, worksafe story. While the format is similar to a previous story I wrote, the structure and intent are different here, and it isn't a sequel. It's rated for suggestive dialogue and because there is some potential light hand-feeding kink planned for a later chapter.

"What's it gonna be? What's it gonna be!?" Oma leaned forward with fists clenched in excitement, eyes sparkling as the MonoMono Machine rumbled and shook. Saihara, much less enthused, took a half-step back and stared in concern at the violently shaking apparatus. He had received items varying in size from a pack of gum to an entire carrying case for cosplay props; there was no telling how big this new item would be, whether it would come from the small door of the _gacha_ machine or through the hidden chute on the right-hand side of the room.

“O-Oma-kun, should we go-?” he began to ask, just before a small capsule tapped against the door of the machine. The apparatus fell silent. "Oh. Huh."

“Aww. I guess it sucks.” Oma’s shoulders slumped. “Even if it’s diamonds, or one perfect pearl that will totally ruin a small seaside town, I wanted something really big. Anything else is automatically a disappointment, y’know? Put in another coin already!”

“Sorry, that’s the last thing I can afford today.” Oma opened the door with a resigned sigh and let the capsule roll into his palm, cracking it open with a squeeze. “What is it?” Saihara asked, regarding the heart-patterned compass with vague surprise. It was far from the weirdest thing he had bought, but he had to admit it was one of the tackiest. The needle swiveled aimlessly, unable to focus on a direction as it was moved around.

“Ah, it’s this thing!” Oma snatched it deftly from the capsule, turning it over and over with an appraising eye as the needle spun. “I love these. Always have, y’know.”

Saihara, depositing the rest of the spoils into a backpack he had brought for the purpose, was at least seventy-five percent certain neither of them had any idea what it was. “You do?” he asked, sliding a bottle of olive oil into the mesh water bottle holder on the side of the pack.

Oma shot him a wounded look, which did nothing to convince him otherwise. He offered a raised eyebrow in return. “Ah, Saihara-chan sounds soooo skeptical. Even after seeing so much of me - you know how genuine I am!” He slipped the compass casually into his pocket. “You don’t even know what it is, do you?”

“I do know it doesn’t look like…” _Your usual sort of thing_ , he almost concluded, but considered the wide variety of other things Oma had spirited away. Every last salt shaker in the dining hall, for example. A single can of air freshener. A book on animal husbandry entitled _Feelings of Ham_. One unnerving, mechanical grabby hand on a flexible stem that Saihara had briefly considered offering to Iruma before Oma took off snickering with it, the glove waving over his retreating shoulder like a willing accomplice.

Saihara, shouldering his bag with a grunt, shuddered at how close he had come to obliviously giving that thing to her. Because it was a machine, he thought defensively. Not because it was an autonomous disembodied hand that, as Oma informed him later with a haunted expression, tended to get a little handsy at night. He could only imagine the exhibitionistic debacle that would have ensued had Iruma received it, and again he bit back an irrational urge to thank Oma for stealing it from him.

The point was, it was hard to eliminate anything from the infinite pool of Oma’s interests. Maybe he _did_ love heart-patterned compasses. Maybe his entire room was littered in various heart-shaped objects, the real reason he never invited anyone inside. Saihara could begrudgingly imagine it.

Or maybe, he thought unbidden, it was full of autonomous grabby hands. He squished the thought back down from whence it came. Oma, watching enigmatically, interrupted his thought process when he shivered in horror at the thought of them squirming.

“What’s that face for?”

“Er, nothing.” Saihara wrote off the compass as a lost cause. That was fine - he wasn’t sure anyone would like it anyway, and as a gift it ran the risk of being a little romantic. It could join the rest of Oma’s bizarre stash. “You’re like a magpie, Oma-kun.”

“Eh?” He lit up unexpectedly at the comment, eyes sparkling. “That’s the best lie I’ve heard you tell yet, y’know. Probably ‘cause you don’t even know you’re lying.”

Saihara shook his head. “I’m not lying.” He considered it, forgetting about the compass entirely. “Am I lying?”

“Magpies are actually scared of shiny things, Saihara-chan. They don’t hoard them at all.”

“Really…?” It was exactly the sort of inconsequential thing Oma could lie about, but as always the light banter piqued his interest. Oma nodded enthusiastically.

“But because everyone’s been told that magpies steal shiny objects, it’s become the truth everyone agrees on. There are operas and phrases and myths about it, but it’s a lie. It’s one of my favorites,” he said, leading the way out of the school store. “Because it’s a lie everyone’s fallen for, even internationally. Magpies are world-famous for crimes they don’t commit! Just like me,” he concluded, shoulders slumping.

“Well, that part is-”

“Clearly a lie!” Oma interrupted, kicking open the door to the dining hall and outstretching both arms to make a grand entrance into the empty room. “Good job, Saihara-chan...I’m only famous for crimes I did commit, and only in certain circles.” He vanished into the kitchen. “Nothing that a good law-abiding citizen like you would have heard about,” he called out. “You’d have to be part of Interpol, at least.”

“Local police aren’t good enough, huh?” Oma, rummaging for something as Saihara selected a chair and settled in, scoffed loudly.

“Small-town cops are hopeless, y’know? I found two teacups. The kettle is on the stove already.”

“Ah, good.” Saihara’s brow furrowed. “Were we having tea, though?”

“As soon as someone gets around to making it,” Oma snapped, emerging from the kitchen and sitting across the table from Saihara. He crossed his legs, smirking imperiously as he tapped the tip of one index finger against his chin. “I’ve been more than patient. But don’t make oolong this time,” he whispered in a low, menacing tone. “Not if you value your kneecaps.”

“...Ah.” Saihara smiled ruefully. “Let’s see what we really have before you cut down our options. Or any of my limbs. Okay?” Oma shrugged, nestling his chin in one hand.

“I’m not making any promises.”

* * *

Five minutes later, Oma stared disgustedly into the depths of the mug. “You have some cojones, serving this slop to the supreme ruler of evil.” He fished out a ginger slice and hurled it to the table with a wet _plap_. “ _No one_ likes ginger.”

Saihara, fighting back the urge to look frazzled, took a bracing sip. Looking annoyed, he rationalized, would be allowing Oma to win. “It’s good for you, Oma-kun,” he tried, disturbingly like a parent trying to convince a stubborn child to eat vegetables. “Also it’s high in vitamin C and it’ll prevent you from getting a cold?” he attempted again, nearly achieving the clinical tone of an informative TV doctor. He paused in chagrin.

“Oh, really?” Oma asked with almost picturesque condescension, tilting his head lazily to rest on one delicate fist. “And nobody likes it.”

“Well, I like it.”

“And who are you!? Nobody! Thanks for proving my point.” He sipped it and grimaced. “Besides, do you really think that a few petty bacteria or the common rhinovirus could take down someone like _moi_?”

“I, um…” He stared thoughtfully at Oma’s petite, pale form, perched cross-legged on the plastic chair like a porcelain figurine, flyaway hair framing his small face. A strong enough wind could lift him away like dandelion fluff. “I doubt you'd say that,” Saihara concluded. “You’re probably going to tell me you’re immune to all diseases, right?”

“Looks like you’re getting the idea. There might be hope for you after all.” Oma snapped his fingers, regarding Saihara with a smirk and narrowed, gleaming eyes. “Now, make me something else!”

“Make it yourself.” Oma’s smug expression dropped, stricken with misery and betrayal as his eyes welled up with tears.

“But what if I get sick from exertion!? It’s my one weakness!” he wailed. Saihara winced.

“You just said you were-”

“You want me to get sick so you can usurp my position, huh?” he asked, tears rolling down his delicately pinking cheeks. “You’ve deduced my weak point and you’re gonna penetrate it, right!?”

“That’s definitely not it.”

“Don’t penetrate it!” Oma shouted, hands balling into passionate fists.

“What the - don’t _say_ it like that!” Saihara protested helplessly, raising his hands palms-forward as a shield.

“So you’re admitting that’s what you want after all, huh!?” Oma sniffled, wiping at his face with one sleeve. “I _knew_ it, people only ever want one thing from me and it’s _disgusting_ -”

“N-no! Wait, I actually have something else for you,” Saihara shouted back, his face a mask of mortification. Oma blinked away the tears and rested his face on one fist again, every inch the evil overlord as his tearful expression reverted to a cold smirk.

“Eh? A new offering for me? Let’s see it.” Saihara rummaged through his bag and emerged with a small, heavy paper package, placing it on the table in front of him.

“What’s this supposed to be?” Oma asked, his lips pursed in an unimpressed moue of disdain as he opened the top corner, poured sweet crystals into his palm. As Saihara watched, he tilted his hand and poured it in a fine stream past his face, staring at it with half-lidded eyes. “Is this meant to be your latest tribute to my majesty or something?”

“Tribute? It’s...it’s sugar.” Saihara shrugged helplessly. “You like sweets, right? And you can use it in tea-”

“Sure. But I’ll tell you what this is.” Oma set the bag down on the table with a faint _thud_. “It’s, like, half of a do-it-yourself kit for the kind of thing I actually wanna eat. Wow, it’s like you totally know me!”

“Ah, really-?”

“But that’s a lie!” Oma interrupted, glaring. “You look weak, Mister Detective, but you gotta have real guts to give _chores_ to a Supreme Leader. What kind of tribute is that supposed to be?”

“Ah. I apologize.” Saihara fought back the urge to roll his eyes.

“That’s not enough. You’re gonna have to kneel before me to apologize properly.” He crossed his legs and pointed at the toe of his upraised shoe, tilting his head lazily. “Polish it with your tongue!” he commanded, his small frame radiating a commanding aura. “And give thanks that Mom already polished it, so your work is a little easier this time.”

“That’s ridiculous. Don’t take it that far.” Saihara sighed, taking back the sugar. “I don’t have any sweets for you,” he murmured, considering his recent prizes from the MonoMono Machine. Sheet music, which was reserved for Akamatsu. Some sort of non-alcoholic cocktail with a pearl dissolved inside. A plain sewing kit.

“Like I said...you have half a do-it-yourself kit. If you can’t make the connection then you really are a pathetic excuse for a detective,” Oma sighed, tapping his restless fingers on the table. “How lazy can you be, Saihara-chan? Giving me chores you won’t even do yourself.”

“Wait, _you’re_ telling _me_ that?” Saihara asked in disbelief. “And...I might not be much of a detective, that’s true. But I’m definitely not a chef, either.”

“Is that a problem?” He shrugged elaborately, palms-up, and offered an angelic smile. “You’re the one trying to win my favor here, aren’t you? You’re the one trying to get closer to me, riiight?”

Saihara shook his head in disbelief, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. “That’s not how this works,” he protested. Everyone else either liked things or disliked them, pulled him along on adventures or gave him lectures or chatted aimlessly about their lives and hobbies and values - no one had given him tasks to win them over or casually ordered him around, smiling innocently as though no social rules were being stomped. “I mean, that’s not how...how it’s done.”

“Eh? Why?” Oma asked, suddenly alight with curiosity. He leaned forward, fixing intent eyes on Saihara’s face. “It’s not how things are done? But why? What kind of reason is that, anyway? Is that Saihara-chan’s reason?”

“My reason…?”

“Yeah, your reason. Is it because it’s _not done_ , or because _you_ don’t wanna do it, huh? Doesn’t Saihara-chan wanna be on good terms with me? Or else why all the presents? Why the caramels, and the boba tea, and the freeze-dried cake-” he flicked his thin fingers one by one as he talked, casually counting them off in order- “and that loud gum, and the rock-paper-scissors cards...and this sugar, huh?”

“I mean…” He floundered in the face of Oma’s sudden onslaught, looking helplessly at the sugar for backup. The sugar remained obstinately silent. “Of course I want to be on good terms, Oma-kun, but-”

“You just don’t wanna actually do anything to make it happen, huh?” he interrogated, leaning further forward.

“No, that’s not it!” he exclaimed, averting his red-faced gaze to the floor. Oma said nothing; Saihara looked up to find a blank expression, Oma regarding him with a neutral air. “I guess I don’t know the reason…?”

“Well, you should probably try to figure that out. What’s Saihara-chan’s reason, I wonder?” He shrugged, tilting his head carelessly to the side. “I’m interested in finding out. But don’t give me such a boring present ever again, ‘kay? You'll never realize what a brush with death you had today!”

“W-wait,” Saihara sputtered, half-offended.

“Aaaanyway...ciao, Saihara-chan. Bye-bye,” he singsonged, slipping from the chair and heading for the outside door. “Aloha, au revoir!” The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Saihara alone with the sugar and two cooling mugs of ginger tea. Unsurprisingly, Oma had left behind his own dishes. Saihara stared at the cups and thought about it - Oma's capricious friendship, his unpredictable attitude. It was strange to receive such a direct request from him, even nested in an odd, circuitous discussion about reasons, rather than an opaque series of games. Saihara wondered what the meaning of it was. A form of reaching out, perhaps?

“You know...I can’t believe I’m about to go along with this,” Saihara told the traitorous sugar, sighing and rubbing at his eyes. As usual, time spent with Oma had left him dizzy from being jerked around so cavalierly. The sugar, in another clear act of betrayal, offered no support. “For that matter, I can’t believe I’m telling you about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oma is being completely [honest](https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-28797519) about magpies, shiny objects, and his distaste for plain sugar...but he's lying about the Earnest Compass, which he actually dislikes.


	2. Tattered Music Score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **055\. Tattered Music Score:** A tattered handwritten music score. Rumor has it that it's unpublished music from a certain famous composer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to **Sugar** , the story of a horse that could never be tamed!
> 
> ...Just kidding. It’s an experimental character study featuring **hot cooking action**! It's a thrill a minute. One of those statements may be false.

Standing before a series of bowls and measuring cups at the counter, Saihara stared hopelessly at the sugar, a bag of flour open and clenched between his nervous hands. Gathering the supplies and ingredients listed had been easy. Working up the willpower to understand the industrial-style mixer, or for that matter the industrial-style kitchen as a whole, was something else entirely. He glanced up and around the room in consternation as though beseeching help; his gaze flicked from the sugar to the flour, from the baking sheet and mixing bowls to an innocent can of shortening, before at last settling on the human figure standing in the doorway.

“Ah!” he shouted, dropping the bag in his hands to the countertop. Flour spouted up in a harmless puff. “Oh. I'm sorry, you just startled me.” He patted his hair a little awkwardly, showering flour to the floor and wincing.

“That’s fine.” Akamatsu offered a confused smile as she entered. “But what’s all this about? Are you picking up a new hobby?”

“Actually, this is more like a mistake.” He picked up the sugar and squinted at the tiny recipe.

“Um…” Akamatsu, even without an explanation, approached and agreeably squinted at the recipe along with him. Staring at the instructions for sugar cookies seemed not to confuse her in the slightest. “I see. But how?”

“It turns out that Oma-kun doesn’t like sugar on its own.” For that matter, Saihara could already hear Oma decrying the idea of sugar cookies - _how plain, as expected of Saihara-chan! One step up from plain sugar and twice as bland!_ “So it wasn’t the best gift idea.”

“Well,” she said optimistically, “maybe that was for the best after all. Giving someone like that so much sugar at once seems like a pretty bad idea even if he _did_ like it. Almost _especially_ if he liked it. But at least you’re not letting it go to waste, huh?”

Saihara pondered how best to explain the situation without sounding as though he were just capitulating to one of Oma's bizarre demands. It was hard to figure out how to explain the weird nuances of the earlier conversation, the tentative element of reaching out that had made him want to go along with Oma's request. “Yeah, um...well, yes.” A good start, he thought, if only he could add some words to it that meant something.

“Ah,” she said in sudden realization, punching one fist into her other hand as though excited by some revelation. “I get it!”

“You do!?”

“You’re going to make cookies for everyone, right?”

Saihara stopped short and stared at her, astonished by the common sense of the idea. If there were cookies for everyone, Oma could scarcely gloat about any sort of perceived victory in the event that he was setting Saihara up, somehow, to look like an idiot. He would have exactly the same thing as everyone else and no room at all to lord it over anyone or pull a prank, and making fun of the gift would just make him look terrible. “Yes,” he agreed with sudden vehemence. “I am.”

“That’s a great idea, Saihara-kun! I’m not sure it’ll work on that guy,” she said, smiling apologetically. “I'll back you up on it if you still want to give him some. But I mean...it’s a thoughtful way to cheer everyone up, don’t you think?”

“I...hope so," he said a little evasively, cupping his fingers thoughtfully over his mouth and trying to ignore the little twinge of guilt. “Speaking of gifts, I meant to give you this.” Rummaging in his bag, discarded on a nearby countertop, he withdrew the sheet music and offered it to her.

“Whoa, look at this!” She examined the handwritten score with a growing smile, her hands already moving slightly on the page as though working out some difficult fingering. “Wow,” she sighed in a reverent voice as though already hearing the music. “This is beautiful.”

Saihara reflected a little wryly on the ease of giving presents to everyone who wasn’t Oma. Akamatsu, he was certain, wouldn’t expect him to suddenly learn piano to prove some nebulous point about whether people would learn piano if vaguely asked to do it. He cast a bitter glance at the sugar. “Thank you so much! Okay, listen,” she said. Her face grew serious, resolute. “I’m obviously more of a pianist than a chef, but we’re both Ultimates, right? I’m pretty sure that together we can figure out how to handle a few cookies.”

“Ah! Really!?” Saihara nearly shouted in relief, then withdrew and placed nervous fingers across his lips. She nodded confidently, raising two fists in an assertive pose as though ready to punch the very idea of failure.

“Definitely!”

* * *

Akamatsu waved her hands at the white smoke coming from the stove. “I can’t believe we can’t handle a few cookies,” she coughed, turning her head away from it. “The directions are right on the bag and everything.”

“But we didn’t even start yet!” Saihara protested. “We were only preheating it!”

“I know, but doesn’t this seem like a bad omen?” She laughed, rubbing at her teary eyes to rid herself of the smoke. “Oh, look, there was a pan left in the oven with some kind of grease left inside. That’s why it started smoking.” She put on an oven mitt and extracted the pan, depositing it into the steel sink with a clatter. “Phew! Gross. Well, let’s get started for real this time.”

Saihara reflected that it was a lot like watching a cooking show, since Akamatsu took the lead so easily and had the charisma to host. Watching her crack an egg in with the butter and sugar, measuring out vanilla and setting up the mixer with no help from him as she cheerfully whistled an etude, felt like cheating. Would Oma know the difference? For that matter, Saihara reflected as he measured out the flour, baking powder, and baking soda into a separate bowl in a good-faith effort at helping out, Oma had said nothing suggesting rules or expectations. It had all been about _reasons._

Akamatsu shook the powder he provided into the mix bit by bit, blending it in as the contents of the bowl went from a thin batter to a thick, sticky dough. Saihara stared at it, lost in thought. “Hey! We’ve gotta make it into little balls,” she said, interrupting his reverie. “C’mon, help me out here. Forty-eight balls.”

He twitched upright, eyes widening. “Ah! I’m sorry! Okay, I’ll do my best.” He imitated her as best he could, watching her roll chunks of dough between her hands and set them apart on a baking sheet. “Um, mine are kind of different sizes.”

“Just pinch a little off the big ones and move it to the small ones,” she sagely advised.

“Y-yeah, thanks…” He felt his face warm with embarrassment as he continued rolling and setting aside the dough. Why, he wondered, _was_ he bothering? Why was she? It was enough to do this sort of thing on a whim, or to avoid letting the sugar go to waste after all, or any number of banal reasons. It was enough for her to casually decide to go along with it, he thought as she slid the pan into the oven, laden with small dough balls.

“Hey, Akamatsu-san…”

“Yeah?” She dusted off her hands and planted them on her hips, regarding the oven triumphantly.

“Why are you doing this? I mean, what’s your reason?”

She glanced at him with a quirk of one eyebrow, smiling. “Um, you needed help? Do people normally need a reason to help someone?” Saihara glanced away, warming with embarrassment again.

“No, sorry. Not sure why I asked,” he said ruefully. “Sorry if you’re bored, though.”

“Of course not!” she scoffed. Saihara stared at the oven, pondering as the timer counted down. Did Oma himself have reasons for everything he did? The idea was ludicrous. Oma had recently stolen every salt shaker in the dining hall, and a stupid tacky compass, and a book about animal husbandry, and there was no way those were all components of some brilliant scheme. He had to be acting on arbitrary whims.

“Okay, and now for the most important part.” She hunched low to the ground, rummaging mysteriously through a cabinet.

“What? Isn’t the food enough?” Saihara asked as she scooped things out and set them on the floor - a stack of bento boxes, cases of plasticware, various storage containers for dry ingredients, a bag of rice. The organization of the kitchen really made no sense, he reflected as the items piled up.

She pulled her head out of the cabinet long enough to shoot a glare at him. “Hey, the presentation is the most important part here! If someone just wanted cookies, they could get those at the store. This is all about...” She stood up, triumphantly brandishing a package filled with colorful cellophane sheets and, in her other hand, a white cone of butcher’s twine. “The handmade look, you know? Forty-eight cookies means three per person if we’re considering sixteen people, so...” She busily began to select cellophane sheets and trim lengths of twine, arranging it all in a row on the countertop.

Saihara considered, but did not say, that a person could easily wrap up store-bought cookies for the same look. He suspected it would be missing the point somehow. “I see. How do I do it?” He lifted a dark blue cellophane sheet from the countertop and held it up, looking through it at her blurry form. “Is this like wrapping a present?” With a growing sense of dread as she took the pan out of the oven and scooped the cookies with a spatula onto the cold steel countertop, it occurred to him that he could barely do that either.

“Aw, hey.” She smiled and shuffled a purple sheet of cellophane out of the squeaky, crinkling package. “I wouldn’t just go and abandon you after all that. Watch. You don’t like sweets, so we’ll put a little extra in this one...” She lay the sheet out flat and stacked six of the largest cookies atop it, lifting and twisting the edges of the cellophane until they met above the stack in a sparkling fountain of violet. “Then you tie it up with something,” she continued, winding the twine twice around the top and finishing it off with a tiny bow.

“That does look nice.” Saihara, fumbling with the blue cellophane and a small stack of only three cookies, admired her work. The cellophane felt unwieldy as he gathered it together into a lopsided fountain, and as he tried to tie it, parts continually slipped out of the twine loop. By the time he successfully tied it, spikes of folded cellophane stuck out of the sides of the little package and the part sticking out above the clumsily tied bow was mere millimeters long.

“How did you do that so easily!?” he asked. He stared at his own attempt, an inverse mutant balloon of plastic, in horror. The twine slipped off the top and the cellophane untwisted like a live thing, flattening out in creases. “Ah…”

“Um, well.” Akamatsu shrugged and offered a sympathetic smile. “You want me to do the wrapping instead?”

“...Yes,” he conceded gratefully. She pulled his cellophane parcel over and untied the twine, refashioning the stack of cookies into another sparkling fountain.

“I think the secret to all of this stuff is thinking about someone else enjoying all your hard work,” she confided. “Knowing that you went to a lot of trouble while thinking of them. You wouldn’t do this for someone unless you really, really wanted to make them happy, right?”

Saihara considered Oma loftily proffering his shoe for worship, his expression condescending and insufferable. “Um, maybe?”

Akamatsu laughed, stacking and wrapping a tall stack of cookies in a sheet of pale green cellophane. “It’ll definitely make everyone happy, geez. I guess...it’s like piano. I know I compare a lot of things to piano, but...”

Her expression took on a faraway, thoughtful air as though remembering something; her long fingers stilled on the plastic for a moment. “It takes a ton of work,” she said, “and sometimes it’s frustrating, you know? But in the end you can play something to lift everyone’s spirits, or to calm someone down, or to give people all sorts of feelings.” She wrapped the twine around the package and tied it in a neat bow. “After this, I’m going to play the music you gave me. The notes say it’s played _molto allegro_ \- really quick and bright, to raise everyone’s hopes. Once I have a good feel for it, I’m going to play it for everyone. We’ll definitely all become friends and get out of here, right?”

Saihara smiled gently, casting his gaze over the carefully arranged packages. “That’s a really nice thought.” He considered the way that even Oma lit up when offered a present he liked. Giving a gift, he thought, really was something like its own reward - perhaps the closest someone like him could get to Akamatsu’s hard-practiced ability to influence emotion. No wonder she had become so close with everyone. “I feel like I kind of get it now. We’ll definitely all become friends. I'm...going to give one of these to Oma-kun.”

“Good!” she said encouragingly, handing him the nicest package - the first one she had made, the purple cellophane glistening proudly at the top. “And if he still gives you a hard time, don’t let it get you down, okay? Don’t just let him walk all over you. You know he’ll just keep escalating if you let him, right?”

“Um, right. Thank you so much for your help.” Akamatsu, gathering the other packages into a small basket, gave him a thumbs-up and a confident smile.

“You got this!”

* * *

“You didn’t get it at all, did you Saihara-chan?” Oma asked some time later in the dining hall, palming the small bag and examining the gleaming cellophane with its neat bow, the glass bottle of milk that Saihara had handed him at the same time. Despite his disgusted expression, he pulled the twine free and took out a cookie. “This isn’t what I asked for at all.”

“It’s exactly what you asked for,” Saihara informed him.

“You’re right - it’s a lie! But I’m also lying about lying, because this really isn’t what I said.” Oma took a huge bite, somehow managing to chew while sneering. “I mean, it’s _good_. Actually,” he corrected himself, “it’s delicious. I suppose I’ll have to let you live for now.”

“Oma-kun,” he said, needled and poorly concealing it. “If it’s delicious, what’s wrong?”

“I’m saying nothing’s wrong. Not exactly,” Oma murmured, then stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “Bufff! I’m mot confinphed.”

“What was that?” Saihara asked in consternation. Oma held up one finger, chewing in obvious satisfaction and taking a small drink to wash it down.

“Ahhh,” he sighed. “But! I’m not convinced. Not that you can’t always try again.” He extracted another cookie from the package and nibbled at it, casting a gaze of challenge at Saihara. “That isn’t just because I want more to eat or anything.” He took a larger bite, cheeks puffing out, and Saihara suspected it was exactly the reason as he watched Oma munch contentedly.

“Oh, it’s not?”

“No, of course not. Do I look like I’m enjoying this thaaat much?” Oma rolled his eyes, putting on an exasperated expression that was less than convincing when he was already taking another bite and another gulp of milk.

“Okay, so why?”

Oma swallowed and smiled beatifically. “I told you, it’s not what I asked for. Saihara-chan didn’t come back with a _reason_ for why he’s doing this, or not doing this. I didn’t say you _had_ to do it, remember?”

“You…” Casting back over his memory, Saihara recalled the vague impression that Oma had been asking for food, but it was true that there had been no direct request. “You sort of did.”

“Nooooo. I wanted Saihara-chan’s reason why these things aren’t done - did you not wanna do it? Did you wanna do it after all? You did it, sooo-”

“Wait, hold on,” Saihara interjected, half-surprised to have a response. “I actually did have a reason to do this.”

“Eh, you do?” Oma leaned forward in real or feigned fascination, a third cookie clutched in his small hand. “Well, don’t leave me in suspense. What’s Saihara-chan’s reason for going to the trouble?”

“When I give people gifts,” he said a little defiantly, “it makes them happy.” He felt a blush rise to his cheeks at how ridiculous it sounded coming out of his mouth. Akamatsu had made it sound glamorous somehow, like she was the protagonist of some manga where all trials were overcome through the power of friendship. It probably said something about her personality that she was able to say that kind of line and cause people to believe it.

Watching Oma sit back in the chair again, eyes sparkling in delight, made Saihara suspect that he himself was no such person. “What a _nice_ answer!” Oma laughed, kicking his feet back and forth in obvious amusement. “So you just wanna make me happy, huh?”

Saihara paused to consider it. “Isn’t that a good answer?”

Oma took another bite, chewed pensively. “Mmm-hm, noffing wrong wif that. Gueff I-” he swallowed - “mph, gotta accept it. Y’know, though, Akamatsu-chan gave cookies to everyone else today, and I bet everyone is juuust as happy! So isn’t that kind of reason good enough for everyone? It’s so virtuous, no one can disagree. Nishishi…” He crammed the remaining half into his mouth, giggling again in a small spray of crumbs. Somehow Saihara was unsurprised to see that he could be a messy eater. He chewed and swallowed with obvious relish. “What a huuuuge surprise that Akamatsu-chan believes it with all her heart. She’s like that right down to the core, huh?”

“Wait a minute! What’s wrong with being virtuous!?”

“Like I said...nothing!” Oma beamed, already reaching for the fourth cookie. “That’s like the whole definition of being virtuous, right? Good work, Saihara-chan.” Saihara stood perplexed, watching Oma munch away at it. “These really are good, by the way.” He smiled gently, his face angelic despite his bulging cheeks.

“Oma-kun.” He looked thoughtfully at Oma, already taking quick, small bites of the fifth cookie between sips of milk as though trying to make it last. “Um…”

“What?” Evidently bored with conserving it, Oma crammed most of it into his mouth. He was actually speeding up, Saihara noticed. Would he be satisfied by only six of them? Saihara found himself wondering, despite being vaguely nettled, how many cookies Oma really wanted. “You’re dismiffed.” He took a swallow of milk to break it up and let out a long, satisfied sigh. “Unless you want some of this? But you can’t have it. I’m gonna eat the whole thing myself.”

Saihara grimaced, forgetting his train of thought. “I don’t even like sweets.”

“More for me,” Oma said philosophically, “if I were the type to share anyway, which as the supreme leader of evil, I’m obviously not.” He turned the sixth and final cookie around and around in his fingers, admiring the faint browning around the edges. He snapped it in half and took a bite from one half, offering the other to Saihara. His small hand hovered in front of Saihara’s face, the tip of the cookie nearly touching his lips. He smelled the wafting aroma of vanilla. “That’s a lie, though. Did you wanna taste it?”

“No thanks.”

“That’s good,” Oma murmured, stuffing his mouth with the other part of the half he had bitten. “It was a lie.” Despite the fact that he was being difficult he had taken on a soft appearance, his pale cheeks gone pink and squishy as petal mochi. Again, Saihara remembered Akamatsu’s reason - _you wouldn’t do this for someone unless you wanted to make them happy, right?_ Watching Oma nibble at the last half, his face faintly flushed and his lips curved in a smile that seemed genuinely delighted, Saihara considered it. “Mmm...remember you’re not off the hook yet, Saihara-chan. I’m looking forward to hearing what you come up with next time.”

“I think you meant to say that you’re looking forward to eating what I come up with next time.”

“Did I?” Oma cocked his head, pressing a thoughtful finger to his lips. “Nope. But...that too. Goodnight, Saihara-chan.” He hopped up from the chair, offered an ironic salute, and made his way to the door.


	3. Story of Tokono

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **039\. Story of Tokono:** A collection of stories about the customs, legends, and knowledge of civilizations from long ago. It has a high scientific value.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to **Sugar** \- my stripper name in the '90s!
> 
> ...Just kidding. It was actually 'Doublemint Pattie.' Welcome to this, however: the chapter of **hot educational action!**

The dining room echoed with mingled conversation as Saihara gnawed listlessly at his toast and lemon preserves, wondering what to do with the day. There were still plenty of people he hadn’t gotten closer with yet. Would there be time to figure out something to cook? For that matter, did he even want to cook? He glanced around the room - Chabashira and Yumeno sitting side-by-side at the far end of the table seemed like a good prospect, a two-for-one social deal, until it occurred to him that muscling in on the pair would probably result in Chabashira hurling him into space to keep him out of the way. He wondered what Harukawa, Gokuhara, and Hoshi could possibly be discussing at the opposite end of the table, but no matter how he strained his ears, he was unable to hear their conversation either.

Keebo sat close by in conversation with Iruma, who seemed to be gesturing at a blueprint she had brought to the table; Yonaga added details to it with a brush dipped in black ink, ignoring the occasional frustrated shout. Being closer to them than to the others let him overhear their argument. “He doesn’t need a built-in hummingbird feeder,” Saihara heard Iruma yell, half-muffled in the loud room. “He _definitely_ doesn’t need an apple corer, and especially not _there_ , you little shit!”

“Nya-ha, so you have development plans for that region?”

“You bet your flat ass I do! Well, if Keebs decides he’s on board to become the Chinkonsen High-Speed Sexpress Train,” she said, elbowing Keebo in the side. “It’s all up to you, though!”

“W-what!?” Keebo stammered before the swell of conversation overtook them and Saihara lost track.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" asked Shinguji, perched across from him like a crane that had painstakingly learned how to use a chair. Not for the first time, Saihara was taken aback by how spindly he managed to be at all times. "This merging of cultures and personalities, and that...thrilling new blend of art styles." He cast a thoughtful stare over the blueprints, which Saihara could barely see. He could, however, make out a hummingbird feeder on a stick attached to the top of Keebo's head. The groin of the robot was a deeply worrying mishmash of ink lines.

"That's definitely one way to look at it," he said optimistically. Somehow, he did feel optimistic - the day spread out before him, filled with possibilities that, logically speaking, couldn't _all_ be horrible. The chaos in the dining hall felt almost familiar. The odds were good that at least one thing that happened to him throughout the day would be perfectly nice.

"Today, why not spend some time together?" Saihara glanced up at Shinguji, who appeared to be regarding him warmly while speaking. The timing of his sentence juxtaposed with Saihara’s thoughts had been almost like dramatic irony, as though Shinguji was some sort of sinister character, but of course that was ridiculous. Saihara smiled at the thought. "I have no shortage of stories to tell you, now that I know you have a taste for mythology. We can pass the time in the library."

"Oh, that's a good idea. I do have some...research to do, I guess?" Surely, he thought, there would be cookbooks of some sort amidst the tumbling stacks.

"Ah - how wonderful!" Shinguji seemed to quiver, arms wrapping around himself as though physically holding his excitement in at the very prospect of research. "I will be more than delighted to assist."

* * *

"This is harder than I thought it was going to be." Saihara poked listlessly through a small set of cookbooks. Each was tattered, missing pages, and in a language he had no hope of understanding, exactly as expected from the faux library. “No matter how I look at it, I’m pretty sure this one is in Italian.” He pointed at the curling script that spidered across the page, festooning what looked like a woodcut print of a breadbasket. “And handwritten. Why did they choose these books?”

“I agree, this is of very little use. It’s likely that they’re props,” Shinguji said primly, examining a different book that seemed to describe how to prepare croissants. Saihara waited for him to look away before closing it; the idea of attempting croissants was too much to entertain even without French to contend with. “Not intended for serious study, unfortunately. But what is it you were trying to achieve here?”

“Well…” Saihara considered how best to explain the whole story. “I want to make dessert-”

“Ah, yes," Shinguji fluidly interrupted. "Akamatsu-san told me of your newfound interest in cooking when she gave me food…” He placed a bandaged finger on his chin through the mask, his expression pensive. “Did you know that food anthropology is a tremendously important field? The rituals involved in the preparation of food, what the food itself symbolizes, the traditions revolving around the presentation of dishes…”

“Ah, that sounds interesting!” Saihara exclaimed, and meant it. “Oh, right, I had something for you.” He rummaged in his bag and procured a slim volume: _Tokono_ , the cover said. Shinguji took it reverently from his hands, eyes glistening.

“How wonderful,” he breathed. “Surely you know of _tokonoma_ , yes? The display area in a traditional room where a calligraphy or painting scroll is hung...” He appeared to grin beneath his mask, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly in delight. “A superb example to illustrate how even dining is a ritual! Even the placement of guests at the table is ritualistic - the most important guest is always seated facing away from the _tokonoma_. This is a collection of stories written as though from the perspective of someone dwelling within the small space of the _tokonoma_ , observing the daily rituals of the residents of the household. A collection of stories from a taboo place,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes glittering with passion, “since people are not permitted to step inside without ceremony.”

“That’s fascinating,” Saihara said, slightly overwhelmed by the sudden enthusiasm. “Um, but I’m not sure it’s…” He bit back the word _relevant_. For all he knew, whatever Shinguji had in mind could be relevant - surely more relevant than his own vague ideas about puzzling out a recipe in Italian or French. He knew the word _sucre_ , after all, and little else.

“Well…” Shinguji seemed to smile again, more gently, though it was difficult to tell. “Even when it comes to cooking, what sort of teacher would I be to you if I left you to do this alone? Come along.” He offered a bandaged hand, which Saihara took; the bandages rasped softly across his hand, slightly stiff linen strips tickling his palm as Shinguji helped him up with surprising strength.

“You know how to cook?” he asked in amazement as Shinguji released his hand. “I mean, not that I was assuming you couldn’t-”

“I take no offense,” he assured, leading Saihara from the library and toward the stairs. “Cooking is, of course, not an interest anyone expects of me. And I admit my abilities are limited in that arena, but the _significance_ of food, of dining, of the ritual and spectacle, is...fascinating.”

“I...I see. Could you tell me more about it?” Shinguji cast a look back at him, the visible part of his face radiant with delight.

“Of course. We can start with the ingredients.”

* * *

Saihara regarded the industrial kitchen, as always, with astonishment. There were appliances lining the walls that he imagined could be used to sustain an army; a mixer with a bowl half his own height, stacked steel bowls large enough to hold not just his own bag of sugar but twelve more like it, pots large enough to feed everyone in the school for a week if filled with stew. Shinguji, apparently unruffled by the display, had set a mixture of water and vinegar on the stove to boil and rolled out a long square of parchment paper, setting a few dishcloths beside it. An iron skillet rested beside the pot.

“In Egyptian and Hindu cultures,” Shinguji informed him, holding one peeled lotus root in his bandaged hand, “the lotus is admired because it grows from the muddy water of the river. Yet it remains beautiful. Unspoiled,” he elaborated. “Water rolls from the waxy petals, you see, so the flower is unstained by the filth of the world...”

“Ah, I see...” Saihara looked at a nearby metal pastry hook in trepidation and felt deeply relieved that no murder game had begun after all. The kitchen alone could account for dozens of murders, he thought.

“The ancient Egyptians believed that the lotus sank beneath the water at night and rose in the morning, the source of the sun,” Shinguji continued. “Even after years of drought it could remain dormant, only to bloom again when the flood came. Therefore the lotus is symbolic of resurrection. Like many cultures, the Egyptians mythologized the idea of victory over death itself.” Shinguji, as fluidly as though it were part of the lecture, held out a chopstick to Saihara. He blinked at it in confusion. “We need to clear the seeds out using chopsticks,” he explained more prosaically.

“Ah, I see.” Saihara took a stick and a position over the sink, looking at the clustered seeds. The discussion was a bit above him, he thought a little wryly, but poking a lotus root with a stick seemed about right.

“Eternal life, resurrection...but even aside from a wealth of Egyptian and Hindu mythology,” Shinguji continued, holding his elbow in his opposite hand, raising an index finger as though about to lecture, "there is another story to consider that might interest you, considering our current situation. Have you heard of the _lotophagoi_?”

“No,” Saihara admitted, poking a chopstick awkwardly through the holes of the lotus root to clear the seeds away. There were probably, he thought, about a million things Shinguji knew that he himself would not know. Shinguji closed his eyes in obvious pleasure before he began to explain, palming a second lotus root and a chopstick.

“In Homer's _Odyssey_ , Odysseus and his men come across an island where people partake of the lotus,” he murmured, shoving the seeds from the lotus root with a rough, rapid efficacy that was somehow unsettling. “It has a narcotic effect, so the men who eat it desire to stay on the island. They stop dreaming of their home across the waves,” he said, his voice going gentle and abstracted. “They want to live a life of peaceful apathy with the lotus.”

“That sort of does fit our situation,” Saihara said uncertainly.

“Yes. Of course, the lotus in the Odyssey wasn’t the lotus as we know it, but some manner of fruit. But if one feels, perhaps, homesick...this may be the appropriate food.” He seemed to smile beneath his mask. “Something unstained by the circumstances, which may make you dream only of the present and not remain tormented by thoughts of the past. Or, perhaps, the perfect food for someone who longs for an impossible resurrection...”

“I see.” Saihara was uncertain that homesickness was the problem, and resurrection was certainly not the problem, but there was something about Shinguji’s explanation that was deeply thoughtful. He imagined Oma, who seemed to soak up information like a sponge, might be interested. Shinguji ran water through the lotus root, detaching any remaining seeds, and brandished a knife. A shadow fell over his face; he gazed upward at the ceiling for a moment, golden eyes flashing like coins. “U-um, so the lotus might cure homesickness? Or...maybe it’s good for someone whose mind is always filled with complicated thoughts,” Saihara realized, handing over his own seeded lotus root.

“I am _deeply_ pleased,” he said in a quivering voice, the knife glinting unsteadily in his hand, “that you have listened so closely to this lesson that you can build upon it. I am proud to serve as your teacher.” With that, he set about slicing the roots into pale white discs. “The holes of the lotus, in Chinese culture, represent a mind open to new ideas. I myself found many new ideas, traveling there...such a pleasure,” he sighed, depositing the slices into the steaming pot. “The seeds represent _fertility_ , of course.” The air smelled sharply of vinegar. He cranked a timer and set it near the stove.

Saihara considered telling him that he had taken on a distinctly sinister air, holding a glistening knife and talking about pleasure and fertility while standing ominously in the billowing, acrid vinegar steam of the pot. Shinguji seemed like the type not to take offense at being told he was causing a horror movie tableau, but nothing would be achieved by telling him about the deepening atmosphere of dread. At least the egg-shaped timer, having little chicken feet as it did, detracted slightly from the effect. “Did you learn how to cook this there?”

“Ah, no…” He smiled indulgently. “Sister taught me the recipe for lotus _jeonggwa_ after learning it from a Korean classmate some years ago, before Sister became...too unwell to attend school. A simple recipe, but the texture is pleasing, though the sweetness is too much for my palate. It is soft inside and crisp outside.”

“Oh, that sounds nice. I think it’ll be too sweet for me too, though.”

“Mmm,” Shinguji agreed absently, scooping the rest of the slices into the pot and murmuring to himself. “Boil for about seven minutes…here, let’s get the skillet ready.”

“Ah, okay. What do I do?” Shinguji twitched upright, almost as though startled.

“Y-yes, right,” he said, clearing his throat. “A few teaspoons of oil to coat the skillet, on high heat.”

Saihara heated the oil and watched as the roots were scooped from the pot, set on a long dishcloth to dry. “It doesn’t taste like vinegar?”

“No, not at all.” Shinguji opened the sugar bag and dug a spoon into it. “That taste will drain away,” he explained as he dropped the slices into the pan, sizzling and crackling.

Saihara watched him work, the sureness of his bandaged hands as he flipped the discs with tongs, slightly browning them on each side before pouring sugar over them and allowing it to melt across the white flesh of the root. “Why are you doing this?” Saihara asked. “I mean...what’s your reason?”

“What a strange question. Do I need a reason to teach my student something new?” Shinguji asked, turning over the caramelized roots to sugar the other sides. “A thirst for information is an admirable trait, and food is filled with so much _meaning_ , if you have a mind to learn. An open mind, the forgetting of pain, an auspicious dish for the New Year...Just as you do for me by offering me books of intellectual value, I do this to satisfy your researcher’s thirst for knowledge,” he murmured with a rasping laugh. He poured honey over the sugared pan in a steady, sinuous motion, stirring the softened slices of lotus root through the thickening honey syrup in the skillet. “Kehehehehe…”

Saihara smiled. “That’s a really nice thought,” he said, wondering if Shinguji’s persistent creepiness was, in fact, somehow unintentional. Shinguji removed the roots, deep orange with honey and caramelized sugar, and placed them on a flat sheet of parchment paper.

“It’s complete.” He spread his spindly arms wide as though embracing the concept of dessert, evidently elated by his achievement. “Let’s see how it turned out.”

“You said you didn’t like it much, didn’t you?” Saihara asked as he watched Shinguji pick up a cooling slice, bemused as always at the sight of Shinguji preparing to eat.

“Ah, yes. But Sister loves it so, this pale rhizome,” he murmured, holding the lotus up to his mask. A bite vanished from it like magic. “And so I eat it to...remember her, you see, from wherever we are now.”

“Um, right.” Saihara smiled a little, not sure how to process that. “Well...thank you very much for the lesson.”

“Naturally. I wish you the best of luck,” Shinguji said, rolling the parchment paper with the lotus root slices contained inside and folding it at the ends, containing them all inside. “Whatever your intentions.”

* * *

Oma leaned over the table beneath the gazebo, looking in fascination at the sugared lotus slices laid out before him in the slanting light of the early afternoon. The pale pads of his fingers pressed into the honey syrup as he lifted one and raised it to his mouth, sinking small white teeth through the surface.

“Oh,” he said softly, chewing. “That’s nice.” He glanced up at Saihara, his expression going sly and thoughtful. “Did you bring this to make me happy, too? Did you make enough for _everyone_?”

“No. Well,” Saihara said thoughtfully, “actually, I guess so?”

“They’re not gonna get any,” he sang, lips parting in a slightly sticky smile. “Alllll mine. So, same reason after all, huh? Not that I’m complaining, since you brought this-”

“No, there was a reason,” Saihara interjected. He gathered his thoughts carefully. “The lotus is meant to have...a calming effect.” Oma crammed an entire lotus disc into his mouth and grinned, letting the honey melt across his tongue.

“Mm-hmmm?” he asked lazily, reaching for another.

“If you’re feeling homesick...” he murmured, half-aware of what he was saying. Oma cocked his head quizzically as he continued to eat. “No, that’s wrong. It’ll make you forget your troubles if...your head is filled with complicated thoughts,” he amended.

“Mmm, you’re trying to teach me something, huh? Or are you trying to make me feel better?” Oma murmured, chewing and reaching for another. Saihara had lost track of how many he had eaten - four? Five? How many had there been? The rows lay before him, slices vanishing one by one as Oma chewed and listened. “What’s the point here, Saihara-chan?”

Saihara considered his words carefully. “I learned that food is meaningful, I guess.”

“So it’s the food itself this time?” he asked. “The food is the reason, huh?” To Saihara’s surprise, it seemed like a novel idea to Oma; his eyes sparkled as though he had heard a particularly clever joke. “That’s a pretty creative answer! Full marks for effort, Saihara-chan!” he exclaimed before slipping another slice between his lips, smiling as he chewed. “And full marks for texture.”

“So you actually like the answer this time?” he asked, startled at the ease of it.

“Nope, I didn’t say that! Actually, as a reason, it’s a little weak. Did you do all this to learn some boring trivia, and now you’re just done?” He shrugged, licking at his sticky fingers. Saihara opened his mouth to respond and faltered, bereft of a comeback. “What trivia did you learn about cookies, or was that episode all about learning how to be some anime protagonist? Why didn’t _that_ one mean anything cultural, huh?”

“You’ve made your point already,” Saihara sighed, but despite his embarrassment, Oma’s softening expression as he reached satiety had an undeniable appeal. “You really just want to keep eating things, right?”

“Nishishi...who knows? Maybe I’m just making up a bunch of vague, meaningless questions to keep you interested. Maybe I really am curious about why you devoted yourself to...” He stuffed another slice into his mouth, his cheeks puffing out as he struggled to chew through the crisp texture with his overfull mouth. “Mmph, to this idea. Maybe I was just joking and I don’t really care about your reasons at all for, I dunno, defying social conventions? What do you think, Saihara-chan?”

“I’m pretty sure you want to keep eating.” Saihara watched for a long moment just to drink in Oma’s obvious enjoyment, the way he continued decadently to chew slice after slice even after his expression had gentled with satiety. Another slice vanished into his mouth; his face was rosy, warm. The effect was strangely calming. “The holes of the lotus also stand for an open mind,” Saihara offered, becoming suddenly too aware of the quiet atmosphere.

“Eh, does Saihara-chan think my mind needs opening?” Oma stared at him, wide-eyed as he munched at a large, thicker slice. “Are you gonna try to open it? Don’t open it, Saihara-chan.”

“W-what?”

“Don’t open it!” Oma shouted, sticky hands curling into fists before his chest.

“Not _this_ again!” Saihara protested, waving his hands to no avail. “Ah, stop that!” Oma sighed, grinning in satisfaction.

“Saihara-chan is so fun to mess with,” he murmured around a mouthful of candied lotus. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you bring me next time.”

Saihara considered sarcastically asking if he had any requests, but found himself taking the idea seriously. What sort of thing would Oma enjoy most? “You mean the food, right?”

Oma tilted his head thoughtfully, tapping a honeyed finger against his lips. “Nishishi...I wonder?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Story of Tokono must have something to do with [_tokonoma_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tokonoma), but canon never explains the content. The lotus in the _Odyssey_ is a fruit-bearing "lotus-tree" rather than a lotus flower, which is why Shinguji specifies that it isn't the lotus he's actually preparing; just a story about sweets that wash away concerns.


	4. Art Manikin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **065\. Art Manikin:** A model doll that has the same joints as humans. It's pretty versatile and can stay balanced in positions humans can't maintain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to **Sugar** , a hard-hitting tearjerker about a cute dog that you know won't live until the end of the movie.
> 
> ...Just kidding. Welcome to this, the chapter of **divinely-inspired[potboiling](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Potboiler) action!** That's also a lie, though - or is it? Is there a pot? Will there be boiling? Am I just writing fanfiction for the money? The answer to one of those questions is "no."
> 
> Actual note: Since Yonaga's religion doesn't reflect any particular cultural beliefs or get taken seriously in canon, I've gone with the direct translation (god of the island) instead of using Atua's name from the localization.

“If it’s good enough for everyone else, it’s good enough for me!” Oma sang at Akamatsu over breakfast, then took a huge bite of the pancakes heaped in front of him. Tojo must have prepared them, Saihara thought - they had been five cakes deep at the start, heaped with butter and strawberries and whipped cream like something out of a magazine spread, and as he watched Oma drizzled an extra layer of syrup over the half-eaten stack. The sight made Saihara’s teeth ache. “But that’s a lie,” he said darkly. “Don’t you think I deserve better than the same thing everyone else got? I ought to have you assassinated for _presumptuousness_ , piano freak-”

“Quit that,” she said firmly. “Right now.” Oma fell silent, gazing ominously at her as a shadow fell over his face. “Yeah, you heard me.”

“How _dare_ you...but okay!” he concluded, suddenly beaming. “Wow, you really don’t let me get away with anything. I respect that.”

“Wait!” Saihara interjected, frazzled at the ease with which she handled the situation. “Why can’t I do that? That’s it,” he attempted, “you stop that.”

“Eh...when Saihara-chan does it, it just sounds whiny.” Oma shrugged and took another heaping bite, the whipped cream puffing softly at the corners of his mouth, glossy with syrup. Saihara fought back an irrational urge to reach across the table and dab at his face with a napkin in vengeance. “Ahh, so it makes me want to give you an even harder time.”

“Don’t give him a hard time either,” Akamatsu said a little sternly. Oma took another bite and giggled around it.

“Nope! That’ff where I draw the line,” he mumbled through his stuffed mouth. Given the opportunity to think about it, Saihara realized that Oma ate heavily at most meals and not just when given desserts - despite his tiny frame, he gulped down whatever was served as though it were a luxury that needed indulging before it went away. Did he not get enough to eat outside the dome?

Somehow, watching him stuff bite after bite of cake and strawberries into his mouth in obvious bliss, Saihara disliked that idea - the energetic, forceful Oma going to bed hungry, the way it would gnaw at him with his high metabolism and small frame. But there was no definite proof that it was true. Plenty of people were on the small side, and plenty of people had trouble gaining weight, and there was no reason Oma couldn’t simply have a huge appetite. Oma was eating happily and seemed full of energy - there was no need to jump to the worst conclusion.

“Mmm,” Oma sighed, chewing the last bite, and rested one satisfied hand on his belly. “Yeah, that’s where I draw the line. If I couldn’t give Saihara-chan a hard time, I’d die of boredom right here.” He yawned and rubbed at one eye with his sleeve, the image of utter satiation. “It might already be happening. Everything’s going dark, Akamatsu-chan…”

“Yeah, you're sleepy. You could always just go back to the dorms and take a nap. Or...hey!” She lit up, radiant with sudden inspiration. “Did you want me to play Brahms’s Lullaby for you at my lab?”

“But evil never sleeps,” Oma mumbled, then inhaled to let out a jaw-cracking yawn. “Actually, that idea sounds kinda cool, unless...that’s a lie-”

“ _Shuichi!_ ” announced Yonaga from directly behind Saihara, plunging into the conversation like an avenging angel and rendering Oma’s appreciation of Brahms an immediate mystery. “Today, the god of the island will be your cooking partner!” Saihara lurched forward mid-bite, inhaling toast crumbs in shock at the unexpected shout. He coughed and sputtered; Oma let out a shockingly loud whinny of laughter, pounding one fist on the table.

“What?” Saihara choked. Yonaga lit up and delivered an astonishing slap to the center of his back, powerful enough that it resonated in his ribs like a drumbeat. “Augh!” The coughing stopped.

“Whoa, you’ve been healed!” shouted Oma, sparkling with delight. “And I’ve been revived. It’s a miracle!”

“Nya-ha, so you finally noticed!” She extended her arms toward Oma as though to pull him into an embrace, stopped only by the table between them. “It _is_ a miracle.” Saihara took a deep, bracing breath and suppressed another cough, still feeling the impact of her small hand between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t deny that it had helped.

“Yeah, you healed him of that mysterious coughing affliction!” Oma cried. “What could have caused it?” Akamatsu shot him a look and he beamed, folding his hands behind his head as though he had no cares in the world.

“Thank you,” Saihara managed. “Um...how did you know I was cooking?”

“Divine logic, of course!” Yonaga reached into the pocket of her smock and withdrew a crumpled, pale yellow cellophane package. “Also, this.” Saihara shot an inquisitive glance at Akamatsu, who nodded with a conspiratorial grin. “And, you know, preparing dessert alone is…” Yonaga tilted her head thoughtfully, tapping the handle of a paintbrush against her lips. “Strictly forbidden. On my island, preparing dessert alone is exactly the same thing as asking to be thrown into the sea.”

“Wow, serious,” drawled Oma. “ _Obviously_ not a lame excuse-”

“On my island,” she interrupted solemnly, leaning toward Saihara with a quiet intensity burning in her face, “Kokichi would have been thrown into the sea enough to learn how to walk on water. The god of the island gives you that skill after five hundred transgression points, if you survive...”

Oma lit up. “Awesome, points for transgressions? Tell me more! How many points do I get for _blasphemy_? Hey,” he shouted at the ceiling. “Have I ever said how much I think island gods suck? ‘Cause I totally do! How many points did I get for _that_ move, huh!?”

Ignoring him, Yonaga leaned even closer to Saihara, long pigtails draping over her shoulders and casting her face in ominous shadow. “ _You_ wouldn’t want to be thrown into the sea, would you?”

“No...wait, I don’t remember agreeing to that law!” Saihara protested.

“The law is absolute!” she declared. “Now, come along.” She seized one of his hands, her palm soft and warm against his, and yanked him from the chair with incredible enthusiasm. “There’s no time to waste.”

* * *

Yonaga’s preparation of the equipment was over before he knew it. Saihara found himself staring at the supplies, a single large saucepan and spoon on the stove and a glass pan lined with parchment resting on the counter nearby, without having done anything to help her. He wondered about his own presence there; it looked like the only responsibility involved stirring. Would there be anything for him to do?

Maybe, he realized, she intended him to do the cooking as she issued divine orders. He smiled a little ruefully at the idea as Yonaga looked through the assortment of vegetables in the refrigerator, then through a nearby breadbox, then hopped up repeatedly to see over a high cabinet. “Shuichi! There’s a problem.”

“Oh?” he asked politely, standing on his toes to look over the cabinet. “Well, there’s nothing up there.”

“Yeah, that’s right! We don’t have coconuts.” She swayed to the right, her expression going inquisitive as though she had asked a question. “And we can’t make it without coconuts.” She swayed to the left as he considered the issue and turned to check out the assortment of canned food on the far wall. “How are we gonna make it without coconuts?” Her eyes went wide and unnerving as she called after his retreating form. “Hey Shuichi, how? Without coconuts?”

“What part of the coconut?” Saihara called back, looking over the strange variety of items in stock. Canned coconut meat, coconut water in bottles, coconut cream, and coconut milk sat side-by-side with various potted meat products and preserved items that turned his stomach a bit to consider, including one can that appeared to be full of snails and, beside that, several cans of bread. Like the ersatz library, it was less than well-organized. “I think we can make it work.”

“We need the milk, but not the rough part or the part that burns when you touch it!” she called back, rummaging in a different cabinet. He shot a perplexed stare over his shoulder at her, met by a beaming smile as she looked back at him. “And not coconut cream,” she clarified. “That’s too thick.”

“That wasn’t really the questionable part of that statement, but…” Saihara took a few cans of coconut milk, glancing nervously at the snails. “Okay, I got it.” Yonaga had already set out cornstarch and salt beside the opened, slightly crumpled bag of sugar. Saihara popped the tabs on both cans and peeled the lids back, pouring the dense contents into the waiting saucepan.

“This stuff will work, but to thicken it on the island we use the root of a different plant. I think it’s a plant,” she pondered, pouring cornstarch into the pot without measuring. Powder flew from the pot, wafting out over her face and lightly dusting her cheeks as droplets of coconut milk fell and sizzled on the burner. “Gotta wait for it to boil now.”

“Wait, you...only _think_ it’s a plant?” As usual, Yonaga’s odd soliloquy flowed so smoothly from her that Saihara felt he was missing every step of the conversation. He rubbed at his eyes, slightly dizzied.

“Well, when you pull it out, there’s this wonderful singing...and then, in a few hours, you wake up so refreshed! Right in the middle of the jungle. It’s a lot of fun,” she concluded, beaming. Saihara cupped thoughtful fingers over his mouth, pondering the statement before realizing in alarm that she had dropped in another double handful of cornstarch.

“Hey! Isn’t that kind of a lot!?” he asked. “Don’t we have to measure it? What if it thickens up too much?”

“That would never be allowed to happen,” Yonaga informed him serenely, shaking in a bit of salt and picking up the sugar to pour in a generous amount. “Like I always say, pour it out like His wrath. I’ve never measured anything a day in my life when I cooked, and everyone always said my cooking was the best. Nyahaha, that’s divine inspiration for ya!”

Saihara considered the likelihood that the people eating her cooking were submitting to it more out of fear than desire. The odds were worrisomely high. “Ah...that’s very reassuring. You ate it too, right?”

“Hmmmm?” she hummed, transparently ignoring him as she mixed the cornstarch in with the coconut milk, forming strange clumps. “Stir, stir, stir…huh, it’s normally a little more smooth than this.”

“It’s probably the saucepan,” Saihara suggested diplomatically, rushing to the shelf to bring back two more cans of coconut milk. The clumps stirred into the additional liquid easily, smoothing out into a bubbly white mixture that she dragged the spoon through again and again.

“Now it looks perfect!” she exulted. “No wonder I was told to help you out on your mysterious mission.”

“Oh, you were told to?” He smiled despite himself; it was a strange thing to say, ascribing all her actions to divine instruction, but as usual her intentions seemed good. “I’m grateful.”

“No one should do everything all alone,” she said, stirring patiently and pouring in more sugar straight from the bag. Saihara wondered why he was surprised, for a moment, that Yonaga had the patience to stir a pot to boil - she was an energetic person, but art was also something requiring concentration. It was no surprise that she was able to focus when it mattered.

“Ah,” he said suddenly, “right, I had something for you.” He rummaged through his bag and produced a poseable wooden manikin, setting it on the countertop.

“Oh? Yahoo!” Yonaga lit up, clapping her hands together and spattering coconut milk across the countertop from the spoon. “Wonderful, Shuichi! This must be an inspired gift. A miracle! ‘Cuz back on my island, I just get other people to pose for me instead, however I want, as many as I want, anytime I want, for as long as I want! So I never needed one of these before.” She twisted one of the manikin’s legs forward and one backward, splaying the feet at odd angles. “Wow, but they can do the same things as a real person.”

Saihara blinked at the concept of people lining up to pose at will, much less in such odd configurations. “Doesn't that get hard for real people to do?”

“What? Why would it get hard?” She tilted her head, eyes wide and ingenuous. “Would it get hard for you? No, they can do any pose I need. It’s never been a problem before!” Saihara smiled a little nervously, looking away and trying to conceal his faint blush of embarrassment. “You wanna try it? You wanna try try try it!?”

“Um, no thank you.”

“Aw, booooo.” She pursed her lips, then immediately smiled again, posing the manikin’s arms with hands upraised in joy or praise before she returned to her stirring. “On my island, we eat this pudding whenever there’s a big party. Everyone is together, and the music is loud, and all the women dance…”

“I know you said you were told to…” Saihara considered how best to ask the question of her. “Why did the god of the island want you to do this?”

“Do what?” She tilted her head, pigtails swishing to the side. “Help you make pudding? He says pudding is its own reward.”

“Ah, of course,” he murmured.

“He loves it when everyone is together and having fun. Like I said, He gets lonely...if you make the right food, it brings everyone together. And then you have a big party.” The heavy mixture had begun to thicken, dragging gently behind the spoon. “If you make divine food,” she said cheerfully, “you’re _never_ alone, ‘cuz everyone loves eating it.”

“Oh…” Saihara watched the spoon cut through the pudding again and again, scraping at the bottom of the pot.

“I’m never alone anyway. But, you know, sometimes you want everyone close by.” She slowed a moment in stirring. The thickening liquid had begun to congeal around the edges, trailing the spoon in thin clumps and sizzling at the edges of the pot as it was pulled away. Her broad smile gradually went neutral. “Hey, Shuichi. You'll join in too, riiiight?”

Saihara stared at the spoon, unsure what to make of her invitation. The air smelled thickly of coconut and he wondered if the scent made her homesick for the parties she had described, crowded places where everyone would obediently listen and move and pose at her will, where everyone apparently lived under her weird benevolence. “We’ll definitely all make friends,” he said hesitantly, wishing he had the conviction to say it like Akamatsu would. “And we’ll get out of here. Um, the god of the island will help us, right?”

“He’s listening to you right now,” she said tranquilly, her eyes closing as though in prayer. “He’s always watching over you...” Saihara imagined, with a rueful smile, attempting to explain divine inspiration to Oma as the true reason for making pudding. “You’re welcome to join anytime.” Her voice went gentle, loving. “I’ll show you the way, Shuichi.”

“Thanks,” he told her. “Thank you,” he said in the vague direction of the ceiling, feeling slightly silly. At least Oma wasn’t there to see that part, he thought.

Yonaga brightened suddenly, lighting up as though nothing had happened. “It’s done!” She pulled the spoon through it quickly to show how smooth the thickened pudding had become, wobbling and sticking together like gelatin. “Pour it out like His wrath,” she sang, scooping the steaming mixture into the pan and smoothing it down with the spoon, forming it into a thick white sheet along the bottom. “Then, just like His wrath, you leave it in the refrigerator for a few hours until it cools down.”

“It needs refrigerating!?”

“Well yeah, Shuichi. It’s pudding.” Saihara blinked at her. “Unless you meant the wrath, but isn’t that obvious? If you pour it out somewhere cold…” Her face went shadowy, ominous. “ _Maybe no one gets hurt this time_.”

“Ah. That’s very thoughtful.”

“Anyway, then you cut it into a bunch of little cubes and that’s it.” Yonaga stuck the spoon in her mouth, pensively tasting the mixture. “Yah-hah, it’s perfect! Perfect as always!” she cheered. “I’ll leave some for you when it’s cold, okay?”

“Thanks,” said Saihara, smiling at her enthusiasm. “Um, thanks,” he told the ceiling in a quieter voice, glancing around as though afraid to be caught.

“Who are you talking to? He stands on the _ground_ , you know. I told you.”

“O-oh, right.” Saihara cupped a hand over his face to conceal his sudden flush of humiliation as Yonaga made her way to the door, hands already busily rearranging the manikin’s limbs as though in a fit of inspiration. “Sorry about that.”

“Anyway, don’t forget what I told you. I’m ready for you to convert anytime,” she said brightly as she approached the door. “If you convert today, I’ll make sure you get an extra twenty points, okay? Bye-onara, Shuichi!”

* * *

Saihara had seen Oma’s lab before, the supercar and remote-controlled helicopter and the assortment of villainous accoutrements, but he had never before seen Oma perched on the floating throne. His slim arms were spread out to either side of him to lie across the arms of the chair, but even with his purposeful attempt to look imposing and his wide, cold smile, there was easily enough room on the throne for another person entirely.

The effect was slightly ridiculous; Saihara stifled the urge to smile at the sight. Oma made a low scoffing noise as the throne rose from the platform. “You’re totally jealous, right?” The throne floated down, hovered in front of Saihara. He offered up the box, stacked high with a heap of soft white pudding cubes, and let Oma take it from his hands. “Ultimate Detectives don’t get neat stuff like this.”

Saihara glanced at the assortment of glasses, false noses, and mustaches lining one wall. “Well, that’s definitely true.”

Oma tapped lightly on the box, watching the pudding jiggle. “Interesting,” he murmured, then picked one up between his fingers. The pudding had set into a texture so dense, chilled in the refrigerator, that it easily held its shape. He popped it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Not bad.”

Saihara watched the motion of his cheeks as he munched cube after cube, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. “What’s it like?”

“Mmm...like a coconut gummy, maybe. I like coconut.” He set the box beside him on his throne, crossing his legs ostentatiously as he lifted piece after piece from the pile. “Not bad, Saihara-chan. This texture might be a little addictive.”

“I also brought cinnamon,” Saihara offered, pulling the shaker from his blazer pocket. Oma spared it a glance before popping two more white cubes between his lips. Saihara considered his dislike of ginger - did Oma dislike cinnamon, too?

“Well, as nice as this moment is, seeing you at the foot of my throne…” Oma smiled condescendingly down upon him from the floating chair. “I’m waiting for Saihara-chan to tell me alllll about the cultural significance of this pudding. C’mon already!”

Saihara considered informing him that the pudding was, in fact, divinely inspired, then imagined what it would feel like to be pelted with dozens of pudding cubes. But there was a different reason, he thought - despite her prophetic attitude, Yonaga had still given a rationale that was more human than divine. “It brings people closer together, so you won’t be alone.” Oma, popping another cube into his mouth, swallowed and stared blankly at him. “Because...cooking can bring people closer to you.”

“Wow, what an unexpectedly direct proposition from Saihara-chan.” Saihara froze, trapped by his serious expression. “How close do you want me?” It was impossible to tell, based on his neutral smile, whether his behavior was genuine intrigue or the setup for a joke.

“Food brings _everyone_ closer together, doesn’t it?” Saihara attempted, opting for the safe reaction. She had meant it that way, he was certain - a desire not to be alone. He considered Oma being closer to him, even closer than he was now, leaning dramatically forward from his throne and glittering all at once with a strangely intoxicating fascination. Saihara thought about Oma’s ostentatious satiety at breakfast, his cruel delight at the prospect of faith, the way he sat on his oversized throne like a lord. Prickly, difficult Oma drawn in by his effort, closer and closer.

“You didn’t feed _everyone_ , though, did you?” Oma pressed one wiggly pudding cube between his small fingers, the sides bulging gently. “You only brought this to _me_. Saihara-chan’s almost as dense as this pudding, huh?”

“That’s some pretty dense pudding,” Saihara observed wryly. Oma’s pointed, dramatic interrogation had less effect than usual, coupled as it was with the fact that he had already munched down possibly dozens of squishy pudding cubes, his cheeks increasingly rosy with pleasure. “I don’t think that’s quite fair.”

“If it were less dense, you’d accept it?” Oma asked, his eyebrows rising. “Okay, I’ll break it down juuuust for you. The one who wants to make everyone happy is Akamatsu-chan. The one who wants to educate you is - ugh - that creep. The one who wants to herd you closer is the cultist. Did she give you a fortune reading and a punch card, too? Did she sell you some overpriced rock salt?” He sat back and popped a few more cubes into his mouth. “So, Saihara-chan, are you getting my point here? Are you picking up what I’m laying down for you?" He tilted his head and stared at Saihara, his face going solemn. "Anyway, all that aside, I’ve decided...I’ll forgive you! Just this once.”

Saihara blinked. “For what?”

“For giving me a stupid present I didn’t like.” Oma grinned, squishing a little pudding out from between his teeth in a discomforting spectacle. “Despite that mistake, which would normally mean the death penalty, you’re gonna be permitted to live on. You weren’t too lazy to do chores yourself. Saihara-chan really showed me, huh? Mission complete!”

“Wait. You don’t want anything else?” he asked in disbelief. Oma shrugged, tilted his head carelessly to the side as he picked up cubes between his spread fingers and ate them one by one. “You’re lying right now, aren’t you?”

“I hate lies and games," he murmured. "Can't stand that kind of thing, y'know?" Saihara stared at his soft expression as he chewed contentedly, the fingers of his other hand drumming on the arm of his throne. Somehow, it felt anticlimactic - as though Oma had gotten bored and left off suddenly, he thought. As though something important had been missed. “You’re dismissed for now, Saihara-chan.” He waved one hand as though shooing him out the door. “Go on, go on.”

Saihara turned and walked uncertainly for the door, casting a glance back over his shoulder at Oma still eating happily. Oma made eye contact and waved, coconut pudding cubes nestled between every one of his fingers.

"Bye-bye, Saihara-chan!" he shouted, beaming with delight. "Adios, arrivederci, farewell!" He leaned forward to shout through his cupped hands at Saihara's retreating form in the hallway. "Auf wiedersehen, adieu!" Saihara silently made his way down the hallway, trying to straighten out the highway of his thoughts enough to draw any sort of conclusion. The door closed behind him with a soft, final whir. " _Bon voyage!_ " shrieked Oma through the closing gap, and then Saihara was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could say they're making [haupia](https://www.contemplatingsweets.com/hawaiian-haupia-coconut-pudding/), a Polynesian coconut pudding - but since it omits water, it's a little more like the similar Puerto Rican [tembleque](https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/238693/tembleque-puerto-rican-coconut-pudding/). You can easily make it in five minutes, so if you like coconut, consider trying it out.


	5. Stainless Tray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **043\. Stainless Tray (1000 Casino Coins):** A circular silver tray that shines like a mirror. It is befitting of a maid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to **Sugar** , a story about cooking. That's no lie! Thank you for reading it. I've tagged for stuffing in case anyone is sensitive to that concept, and it's been rated all along due to the planned hand-feeding kink. However, the content itself is quite mild.

“If I may be so bold,” Tojo said, clearing her throat softly as she entered the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

“Ah!” Saihara exclaimed, looking over his shoulder as though he had been caught doing something terrible, then relaxed as he saw her inquisitive face. “Oh...well, I’ve been cooking lately.” It had become easier, he thought, not even to attempt an explanation of the full and unreasonable story, especially now that his actions had become unnecessary even by Oma’s own standards.

“I see,” she said politely. “And what is today’s project?”

“I want to make about ten steamed cakes,” he said, glancing over the awkward pile of ingredients he had amassed from throughout the disorganized kitchen. It was no surprise, based on the weird amalgam of items, that it was impossible to tell his intentions just by looking at it all. A rice cooker sat beside the ungainly heap. “I’m no chef, but...I do sort of remember how to do this much.”

“Cake…” Tojo approached, her expression fierce and single-minded as always as she noticed the waiting rice cooker. “I see, your intention is to make _mushipan_. The recipe is simple enough. I believe it should be safe for you.”

“Safe?” wondered Saihara, measuring flour into a large bowl and adding in baking powder. Tojo nodded seriously, opening the carton of eggs and pulling a smaller bowl close. “Ah, you’re going to help me?”

“Of course,” she said flatly, her intonation conveying that there was never the remotest possibility that she would ignore any mundane task she happened to catch him doing. As always, the degree of servitude left Saihara faintly nervous.

“Oh. Um...th-thank you. You’re not wondering why?” he asked. Tojo inclined her head graciously forward without a response, cracking eggs one-handed with practiced ease. “Or why there are ten? I couldn’t find any more flavors that would work,” he explained unnecessarily. It was sort of a lie - there were ginger root, cinnamon, and nutmeg, and he had located one lonely can of pumpkin, but those flavors were all likely to be rejected.

“No,” she said simply, then appeared to notice his anxious sidelong glance. “My concern is to work for your sake,” she elaborated, cradling an egg in her palm. “Though I have never cooked alongside a master before, it is my duty to support you whether you make ten or ten thousand cakes.”

“Oh? I’m...I’m sorry,” Saihara stammered for no reason he could explain. “Maybe I could do something to help with dinner?” Nothing he did, he realized, would in any way be up to the standards Tojo seemed to set for herself; he remembered the perfect gleam of Oma’s proffered shoe, the perfect crease of his own uniform pants, the gorgeous breakfasts. His clumsy effort at helping would surely be more of a hindrance. To make matters worse, she would be too civil to tell him. “I could set the table…?”

“No. Because this is my wish as well.” She spread her arms wide, displaying ten silicone cupcake molds and small glass bowls lined up neatly on the countertop, each the perfect size to hold the batter for a single cake. “As you see,” Tojo said, “it takes no time at all.”

Saihara gaped at the setup with all the elegance of a largemouth bass. Somehow, as he had waffled over shoes and etiquette and laundry, she had set out the supplies for the entire project. “What? That’s incredible! How did you _do_ that!?”

“It is nothing,” she said modestly.

“It’s definitely not nothing,” he protested, unrolling the crumpled sugar bag and measuring spoonfuls into the eggs in a vain attempt to seem useful. The sugar was almost gone, he noticed. Tojo smiled and curtsied prettily. To his immense relief, a glint of warmth appeared in her expression at the sight of him fumbling with it - the sort of look a mother would give to a child trying messily but seriously to scrub dishes or mop a floor for the first time. He could never let her know that idea, he thought wryly, measuring vegetable oil and milk into the wet mixture. “I really appreciate your help.”

“I am grateful for your appreciation, though as usual you seem not to understand what it entails to be a maid.”

“Um...well then, do you want to tell me about it?” he asked. “I’d like to get to know you better.” Despite his nervousness, it was no lie - Tojo drew no unnecessary attention to herself and expressed no motivations other than a patient, endless desire to serve, a mindset so foreign to Saihara that it was like peering into another world.

“I will take that as an order,” she said indulgently, nodding in agreement.

“Ah, please don’t. You don’t have to.”

Tojo scooped out small amounts of jellies into the bowls, seemingly by eyeballing the measurements. It seemed as though she was thinking; Saihara, not wanting to interrupt, poured out a little coconut milk into a tiny bowl. “Service,” she said at last, standing elegantly as she mashed a strawberry into tiny bits with exacting precision and added it to another dish, “is duty. All things in this world are a form of duty. You believe I am helping you, and that is true, but this too is a duty for which I have taken responsibility. I will perform it to the utmost of my abilities.”

Saihara frowned as he slowly drizzled out syrup and then honey, not certain how to take the information. “I’m sorry-”

“But duties are _not_ things that one should resent,” she continued mildly, pouring cocoa and vanilla into other small bowls without looking, adding a little extra sugar to the cocoa powder. “Some are preferable to others, or simpler, or more satisfying. Of course a maid has thoughts and opinions - but more important than these is that a maid _serves_.”

“Aren’t these sort of my duties, though?” Saihara asked. “Can I mix the ingredients together now?” She nodded. He poured the wet mixture into the dry ingredients, whisking them briskly together into a thin batter and stirring until it began to thicken.

“These are duties I have taken upon myself,” she said, smiling as tranquilly as though dropping tiny chocolate chips into a bowl with vanilla was the culmination of a dream. “Though it is praiseworthy that you understand the value of one’s own work, even if you may not understand the love of service. Well done.”

“The love of service?” Saihara asked. “I think this is ready.”

“Yes - thank you. You see, I may not love all duties,” she explained, lifting the bowl of batter from his arms. “I may not love all masters. But by discharging my responsibilities to the utmost of my abilities, I show my love of service. All things are a natural extension of that.”

“I don’t know if I understand.” He followed along behind her as she poured batter into the small bowls: cocoa, chocolate chips, strawberries, honey, maple, lemon curd. “But it’s really impressive that you take your work so seriously as the Ultimate Maid, I think, even if I don’t get it.” Maybe, he thought, that love was the reason she seemed motherly to everyone. He kept the idea to himself.

“Indeed,” she acknowledged fondly, “you do not. You are no maid.” Saihara laughed a little self-consciously, mixing each of the individual bowls. She passed him again in a fluid motion, pouring each bowl into the corresponding mold once he had finished mixing: vanilla, cherry, apricot, coconut. He noticed her making adjustments here and there, wordlessly adding sugar or flour as though correcting for the extra ingredients in each cup, stirring with a small fork before pouring and moving quietly on.

“That’s probably for the best,” he said, then paused for a moment in thought. “Actually...there’s one last idea I had, but I wasn’t sure how to make it. Would you help me, please?”

Tojo smiled, alight with what looked like genuine warmth as she began to place the silicone molds in the rice cooker. “Naturally. These will take six minutes, and then we will continue.”

* * *

Saihara gazed over the perfect, soft, shiny domes of the finished cakes, the air rich and heavy with the fresh aroma of baking, and with a growing sense of dread realized that he had no method of transporting eleven of them. “Um, do we actually have a cake carrier in this kitchen? Wait!” he realized suddenly. “Speaking of that, I almost forgot I had something for you.” He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a shining tray. “It was at the casino...it seemed like something you would like?” Tojo’s somber expression brightened, her eyes flashing like the tray’s mirror finish.

“Yes, very much so. A gift befitting a maid, and it will be useful for our project as well.”

“Ah, no, this is for you.” She smiled in response, folding her hands in front of her as he set the tray down on the countertop. “I don’t know how to carry things on a tray, I’ll just drop it all over the floor.” He paused in sudden confusion, unsure how she was aware that all of the cakes were to be presented to one person. “Wait,” he realized suddenly, eyes widening. “You knew because of all the flavors, didn’t you? You knew the whole time what I was doing. That’s why you didn’t need to ask…”

“As expected of the Ultimate Detective,” she conceded with a small nod. “It is my duty to know what everyone prefers.”

“But that’s incredible, Tojo-san.” It was, he thought, really no wonder everyone treated her like a caring mother, as much as she disliked the idea.

She gave a noncommittal hum in response, picking up the tray. “Here,” she instructed, “hold your left hand palm-up.” Saihara hesitantly complied; Tojo placed the tray on his upraised palm, her expression serious. “Let me explain. In proper English service, you stand to the left side of the master and serve with your right hand. You serve from the tray directly to the plates of the guests,” she elaborated, her gaze fixed fiercely on the slightly wobbling tray in his hand. “When the course is complete, you clear the plate from the right-hand side and replace the plate from the left-hand side, going clockwise around the table.”

Saihara focused on holding the tray level, realizing after a long moment that he was holding his breath. He let it out a little too audibly and winced. “I don’t know if I’m up to that kind of service.”

“Of course not,” she said gently. “It takes years to master, and this is just one form of silver service, with its own table settings. For example, there is French service, and Russian service...this silver service is the English style. In _service à la française_ , the food was traditionally brought out all at once in a display, though that is not always the case in modern times. In _service à la russe_ , the food is brought out in many individual courses, though not already plated. In American service, the food arrives plated in portions from the start. Each form of service has its own requirements.”

“That’s why you have that table in your lab,” Saihara realized suddenly. “It’s for practicing all the different forms of table service?”

“Yes.” She took the tray from him in a fluid motion and held it in her left hand, solid as iron. “Much of service is practiced muscle memory and a knowledge of history. This sort of learning over the course of years, the desire to perfect these skills...the desire to always know more...is the result of a love of service,” she concluded. Her expression lightened again, grew warm. “But no one will think less of you if you hold the tray with both hands. As I said, you are no maid. Do you understand?”

“...Oh. Well, maybe.” Saihara smiled back, accepting the offered tray with both hands. “I was definitely about to drop it if you put anything on it. But I can give this back to you later...you’re just loaning it to me, right?”

“Yes, of course. As I said.” Her hands brushed his, warm even through the gloves. “It is a fine gift that I will cherish. Now, arrange the cakes, and I shall make everything else ready. This will take ten minutes.” She swept gracefully from the room before he could say anything in response; he stood with the shining tray in his hands, staring after her in confusion.

“Ready for _what_?”

* * *

Ten minutes later, after he had organized the cakes as best he could manage, he stepped out of the kitchen and realized what she meant. Oma sat at the table, looking calmly out the window and holding a white ceramic mug in his steepled fingers. Steam rose from the contents. “Here,” he said, nodding toward a matching mug across the table. “'Cause of my innate psychic talents, I figured Saihara-chan was gonna show up right about now.”

“I see,” Saihara murmured a little dryly as he set the tray down on the table; there was no way he would risk the danger of balancing it. The cakes were arranged in no particular order or pattern, clustered together in a motley array of colors. “What is this?” he asked. The liquid in the mug shone a deep, almost opaque brown, the fragrance of the rising steam familiar. “Oolong tea?”

“Oooh, you got it. No wonder you’re mister Ultimate Detective, huh?”

Saihara sat down and picked up his mug, inhaling the comforting aroma. “But you don’t like it,” he pointed out. “How is this tea here, when I was in the kitchen the whole time?”

“What are you talking about? I loooove oolong tea.” Oma glanced over the variety of cakes with an air of avarice, ignoring the second question entirely. “The only tea I love more than oolong is ginger. It’s like you don’t know me at all!”

Saihara took an experimental sip of the tea. It was the first steeping, he thought, the tannins sharp and astringent on his tongue. The bitterness told him that it had been oversteeped, probably while being carried from somewhere else. Tojo would never have served it. “Did you make this yourself?”

“Amazed it’s so great? Normally I have subordinates to do this kinda thing for me, y’know. I must be a natural.” Oma grinned, carelessly lacing his fingers behind his head. His own cup of tea sat seemingly untouched in front of him, full almost to the brim. Saihara stared at it for a long moment before decisively standing.

“Wait a minute,” he said, walking into the kitchen and returning with the crumpled, nearly-empty bag of sugar, an empty plate, and a fork. Oma’s grin widened as the plate was set before him; he reached out to push his teacup toward Saihara, the saucer and spoon jingling together as the ceramic grated along the table. Leaning down, Saihara poured the remainder of the sugar into the teacup, watching it dissolve and vanish. He glanced up and saw Oma’s gaze fixed on the cup. His expression had gone sly, quietly satisfied in a way hard to define.

“Soooo, I said your mission was complete, but I guess you didn’t think so.” He stirred the tea, spoon clinking softly against the sides of the mug. “Why is that, huh? Lay it on me.” He took a long sip.

“I don’t know if I need a reason,” said Saihara, selecting the lemon curd cake and setting it on the plate for him. “It’s true that I want everyone to be happy, and I want this to mean something, and I...wouldn’t mind being closer.” Oma tore a piece from the cake with his fingers and popped it into his mouth, ignoring the fork. “It’s even sort of true that I...I like serving you things.”

“Then you’re in real luck today, ‘cause I looove being served! Is that today’s moral?” he asked, chewing delightedly and taking another bite, then another, licking his fingertips. “You wanna serve me desserts all the time? I’m not gonna say no to that one.” He accepted the pale strawberry-studded cake next.

Saihara reflected on Tojo’s indulgent smile, the way she had casually claimed her own rationale without extending it to him. _As I said, you are no maid._ Oma watched him with interest, popping another crumbled-off piece of cake into his mouth. Saihara analyzed, almost reflexively, the way Oma’s expression gentled with pleasure at the taste.

“You like strawberry,” he said, “more than lemon. You like honey and vanilla, but you don’t like cinnamon. You’re fine with coconut. You hate ginger and oolong, but you made this today. Did you want to see if I would put sugar in it for you?” Oma tilted his head, innocently chewing. “Did you make it because I like it?” He thought about everyone who had prepared food with him, for him. Despite Oma’s unclear motives, Saihara felt a strange twinge of emotion at the image of his small hands measuring out tea leaves.

“Eh? Mister Detective’s really gonna interrogate me now?” Oma’s eyes went round as though astonished by the questions. “But you’re serving me dessert instead of a breaded pork cutlet, like the cops give you when you’re getting interrogated for realsies, so I’m not convinced.” He shrugged, smirked around a mouthful of soft, dense cake. “I don’t gotta answer anything.”

“I know you won’t,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I think that’s the point, isn’t it? Because you’re always lying, and you never make it clear...I wanted to understand you better.” Saihara felt surer of himself with every word, logic slotting the pieces into place as he went on as though he were solving a mystery. The bag of sugar that had been rejected lying empty on the table, the teacup at Oma’s elbow, Oma slyly watching the sugar dissolve into his tea as though a plan had come together. “You were inviting me to figure that out. You _wanted_ me to understand, didn’t you? That was your reason.”

“I wanted dessert,” Oma explained, sucking the fresh crumbs from his fingertips.

“I suppose so.” Saihara looked at the assortment of cakes, the variety of flavors he had selected. “But that’s not what you asked for, remember?”

“Huh, looks like you remembered after all! Good job.” Oma’s gaze landed on one cake, his eyebrow quirking in curiosity. “Taro root? How would you know I like that?” Saihara placed the sticky maple cake on his plate instead; he brightened as the rich syrup aroma reached him. “So what did I ask? Maybe I don’t remember it myself.”

“I said...this kind of thing isn’t done,” he said, gesturing at the sugar bag. “You asked why it isn’t. That’s because it’s rude and demanding to expect people to do all of this for you, Oma-kun.” Oma nodded enthusiastically, beaming as he sank his fingers into the squishy dome of the cake. It glistened with syrupy residue as it gave way beneath his hand.

“Mmph...mm,” he sighed at the taste. “What sort of supreme leader of evil would I be if I didn’t issue rude demands? It’s expected of someone in my position, Saihara-chan.”

“Everyone actually did it, though. Everyone had their own reason to do it after all.” Saihara cupped his fingers over his own mouth, considering his words. “Even if everyone expresses it differently, I think...that reason is definitely the same.”

Saihara thought about Akamatsu’s generosity of spirit as she packaged the cookies for everyone, Shinguji’s depthless knowledge as he selected ingredients for the lesson, Yonaga’s energetic attempt to bring him into the fold. He thought about Tojo’s educated, practiced expertise. He considered Oma accepting the last of the sugar, looked at the steaming, oversteeped cup of tea at his own elbow.

“Mm-hm?” Oma hummed through a mouthful, his cheeks puffed out with the second half of the maple cake. Saihara sat down beside him and turned the tray around, examining the other cakes - cherry preserves, apricot jam, coconut cream, all softly domed and thick and moist, still warm.

“So, that’s why I’m doing this. I want to understand you,” he concluded, and picked out the cherry cake. Oma picked up the whole cake in his fingers, turning it around and around. “That’s why.”

“So that means…” He took a large bite, smiled seraphically at the flavor. “Mmmm…” Saihara looked at the empty bag of sugar and at the cherry cake in Oma’s hand, pale pink and dotted with deep red bits of sweet fruit, heavy with an aroma like hot jelly. He looked at the remaining cakes and wondered if Oma could really finish them all in one sitting when even one was so rich. His body had already slumped comfortably back as though satisfied, but he still glanced at the remaining cakes with interest. “I get it, Saihara-chan,” he murmured, slipping the other half of the cherry cake between his lips.

“Ah? Um, that’s good.” Saihara wondered if he himself understood. Nervously, he picked up the chocolate cake and flinched in startlement when Oma leaned forward instead of waiting for it to land on his plate, opening his mouth expectantly. “U-um…” He offered it in his hand and watched Oma bite off a large mouthful, closing his eyes in bliss as he chewed.

“Mmm - it means you’re gonna stay by my side, huh? Even when we get out of here.” Oma grinned to reveal chocolate between his teeth. “So you better get used to serving me properly.”

“I might not be a chef,” Saihara said in a resigned tone, “but I’m definitely not a butler, either.” Despite that, he offered the cake again, leaning forward slightly to press it into Oma’s waiting mouth. He took another bite, his lips curling in a smug smile. There was something almost intimate about it, as though by leaning forward Oma had brought down a wall between them. “Is...is it good, Oma-kun?”

“Iffff’s delifffiouf.” Oma swallowed and let out a satisfied huff of air. “It’s delicious.” The plate lay forgotten as Saihara picked up the coconut cake, the honey, the vanilla, the apricot jam - Oma sighed in satisfaction with each soft, warm bite, his expression somewhere between smug and elated. Now and then he took a break and a long sip of tea to wash down a particularly sticky mouthful. Time seemed to contract; Saihara had no idea how long he had been sitting there, watching Oma happily eat from his hands.

“This is _not_ proper table service,” Saihara reflected, pressing a small bite of apricot-studded cake into his mouth and registering almost subconsciously that Oma had preferred the honey cake. “Wait, how did I end up like this!?” Somehow, Saihara realized, Oma had withdrawn so slowly that Saihara himself had been drawn forward in response. It had been easy at first to give him bites he was craning forward to take, but by the fourth cake Oma was almost reclining against the back of his own chair and Saihara found himself sitting forward, voluntarily reaching out to feed him.

“Mmph, you don’t say? This is how alllll my table service goes,” Oma remarked lazily, smirking.

“That...has to be a lie, right?” Saihara hesitantly reached out and selected the chocolate chip cake, leaving only one on the tray. He tore a large piece off in his fingers and offered it, slipping the bite into Oma’s mouth himself rather than offering him the entire cake. Oma accepted it, his eyes half-closed as though sedated, everything about the relaxed lines of his body indicating utter satisfaction. He accepted bite after bite from Saihara’s fingers, the chocolate chips still a little squishy from the warmth of the rice cooker, and shifted back against the chair as though he wanted to lie down.

“Just one more, huh?” he breathed.

“I know,” Saihara said, smiling a little at the sight of Oma so obviously full. “I’m kind of surprised you ate all of them.”

“If you know me that well, you should know I never give up.” Despite the words, his expression was rapt as Saihara took the eleventh cake from the plate, pale purple and sticky with sugary sweetness, dense and soft. He crumbled off a large piece and popped it carefully into Oma’s waiting mouth. His expression lightened as he chewed, from intrigued to elated to luminous.

“This isn’t taro root.”

“Right...we boiled it down to make a reduction, and-”

“It’s a Panta cake!” Oma shifted forward in the chair, breathing quietly, his eyes bright as stars. “I need more just like this.” Saihara reflected on all the ingredients he had gathered, most of them informed by the things he had seen Oma enjoy, and then glanced back at the cake that had clearly won him over after all. It occurred to Saihara that he may have made things more difficult for himself than necessary. Despite that, it hadn't been a waste of time. He wanted to _know,_ to understand Oma's tastes - Oma, himself - well enough to evoke this wonderful satisfaction. The cake filling him up was the natural end result. Saihara smiled wryly, fondly, tearing off another piece of cake and leaning forward.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said simply. Oma took the crumbly bite from his hand, his lips brushing gently along Saihara’s index finger as he closed his eyes. “Um…I’m actually out of sugar, though.” There had to be more sugar in the kitchen, but somehow he had never seen it. Could the only plain sugar in the school really be in the MonoMono Machine?

“But I need at least a dozen just like this,” Oma breathed, his cheeks rosy as Saihara slid the last bite between his lips. He stood up with a heavy rolling motion and a quiet grunt, patting at himself to clear away the crumbs and rocking gently back and forth on his feet. “Well, the honey and the chocolate were good too...yeah, it’s an order. Maybe I can't finish them all, but you can re-steam them, right? So we gotta go to the student store and get more.”

“Right now!?” Saihara asked in disbelief, glancing at the tray and the pile of empty silicone cupcake molds as he trailed after the slowly-moving Oma.

Oma beamed, already making his way for the door. “Riiiight now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed. Here are [an explanation of silver service](https://poloandtweed.com/blog/what-is-silver-service), several [recipes](https://www.justonecookbook.com/steamed-cake/) for [mushipan](https://angieisagirl.wordpress.com/2012/09/17/strawberry-mushipan-japanese-steamed-cup-bread), and [some ideas](http://justbento.com/forum/mushi-pan-variations-dough-and-topping) for flavors and varieties. The first link explains how to make it using a stove if you have no rice cooker! It's very easy, so please give it a try. Thank you for reading. ♥


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